


Many Returns

by outerrims



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: 2 parts awkward fumbling to 4 parts desperate desire, Angst, Drama, Fluff, M/M, Pining, Smut, Switching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 16:41:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21831961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outerrims/pseuds/outerrims
Summary: As revenge for playing such underhanded tricks on him last year, Thomas was prone to randomly leaving sweets he knew Edward liked in his cabin, so Edward could never prepare and intercept, let alone retaliate. That Edward's trick had been in an effort to get Thomas to enjoy himself for once went unacknowledged. Thus the sweet war continued; this year, for his birthday Edward was making Thomas something impossible to share or consume. It would be his, and remain his. Most importantly, this was the only thing he could think of that was both practical and kind, which he knew would appeal to Thomas' sensibilities (and reflect his own feelings). || parallel birthdays over the years
Relationships: Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 29
Kudos: 76





	1. December 14, 1845

**Author's Note:**

> so i meant to post this on little's actual birthday, just like i meant for it to be only one part, but my outline got out of control and i am powerless to its designs. thanks for reading, commenting, kudoing, etc! <3

When Edward returned to his quarters for the night, he found a fruit tart on his bed, and a room that smelled like home.

It had been placed with particular care in the exact center, so as to catch the eye more quickly. Its shell had been crisped and glazed to perfection, and jam peeked from between the gaps. (Likely for want of fresh berries). Whoever had left it would not risk it going unnoticed and crushed into the blankets by the unknowing occupant. Beneath it, the napkin had been neatly folded into a pinwheel shape, the likes of which Edward had only seen at balls and parties.

The clear culprit was Jopson, of course; only he had access to Edward’s quarters and the Captain’s pantry, where such luxuries and the ingredients to make them were kept in store, inaccessible to anyone but Crozier’s fancy. A Captain’s prerogative and all. Jopson’s attention to detail made Edward smile; down to the fact that he had remembered an irrelevant comment from a conversation months ago, that he had a special fondness for fruit tarts, and how infrequently he had been able to indulge, at land and sea. He wasn't the indulging type, he had told Jopson, to quell the pity on the other man's face. Could you miss what you never wanted? Clearly Jopson hadn't believed him. 

He was probably supposed to eat it as quickly as possible; he could not bear to tell Jopson that he’d allowed such a gift to go stale before it could be enjoyed. There was no doubt in his mind that it would be delicious, the kind of decadent that imprints itself upon your memory and conjures better days, but Edward couldn’t bring himself to stop looking at it. In his mind's eye, he saw Jopson scurrying about the mess as he prepared his gift, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, perhaps some flour dusted on his nose and sprinkled on the tops of his shoes; Edward knew that in his distraction, he wouldn't notice such a thing until he went to his quarters for the night. Speculation beckoned: did he hum as he worked? Did he talk to others, or chastise them for distracting him from his labors? Edward wished he could have been there to see it.

Slowly his delight at the gift faded, replaced by concern. Had anyone ever done something like this for Jopson? He hadn’t, when Jopson’s birthday had been exactly a month ago, to the day; he hadn’t known if it was appropriate, as the air between them still sizzled, and each errant brush of a hand was enough to send him reeling. Rather than basking in attention, Jopson had held his head high and continued his work, efficiently as if it had been any other day. Only Edward and Crozier said anything about the occasion, and both were amiably yet firmly dismissed. _It’s not my sort of thing, sir_, Jopson had tried to explain. Edward wasn’t sure if he believed him.

As he traced the glazed edge of the tart, Edward was seized by a sudden, exhilarating impulse; he couldn’t eat such a decadent gift himself without sharing some with its thoughtful creator. Jopson would be so surprised! Perhaps he coveted some as he made it, only then to be delighted with the fruits of his labor. And the way that face wore that emotion, so painfully endearing that it had to be encouraged, protected, even if he couldn’t help teasing it to the surface.

He didn’t have to wait long to make his proposition. In the evening watches, Jopson was often washing the linens; when finished, he would return to his own quarters, shoulders aching, his hands raw, eyes shadowed and red. He claimed that sleep never took long to find him, but Edward wasn't so sure. Once, he’d rebuffed Edward's concerns on the subject with a recitation: he’d slept through a gale before he transferred to _Terror_, even when the hold was pitching its contents all throughout the lower decks. “I was sick at the time,” he eventually added. “Likely that had something to do with it.” It almost certainly had, for the Jopson Edward was getting to know woke at the drop of a pin.

Edward had no sooner removed his inner coat when a polite knock interrupted his preoccupied silence. He knew without looking that it was Jopson; the man had a particular way of going about his business, so novel compared to the rest of the crew that one couldn’t help but to recognize him. When he listened carefully, he could hear a slight asymmetry in Jopson’s gait, though from the way he glided across the deck, the tray in his hand never wavering, you’d never notice anything was amiss until you were watching closely, or perhaps knew about it in advance. “May I come in?” he asked, his voice slightly muffled through the other side of the slatted door.

“Please, do.”

Unbearably formal, but the only way to behave in public. There was always the chain of command to consider, stipulations to respect, transgressions and the threat of their punishment; it hung over their heads like the shivering blade of a guillotine. In public, all they could do was be polite, though as of late those manners felt more like a flimsy mask, to conceal the roiling mass of feeling within. He was almost able to look Jopson in the eye, now. It had taken weeks to build up to that.

The door slid aside and Jopson stepped over the threshold, a small tray wedged against his hip. He had made tea, of course, and Edward spied something else on the tray, a little square of gold foil. “You didn’t have to go through all this trouble,” Edward said; the thought of Jopson adding onto his already punishingly busy day filled him with absurd guilt.

“Well, I wanted to,” Jopson said with his little smile. "Happy birthday."

Edward took the tray from Jopson and set it on the bedside table before offering him the only seat in the cabin. “Would you join me? Or do you have more rounds to make.”

Jopson blinked, surprised. “I’ll join you … only for a moment, though, I still have much to do.” With one last look around, (checking for bystanders, perhaps), he sank into the chair, like a man who hadn’t known rest for a century.

“I won’t keep you from your duties for long.” _Just long enough for you to rest, if only for a moment. _

A charged silence fell. They looked at one another, tentative and eager, and a hot flush crept up Edward’s neck. It was impossible to be alone with Jopson without visceral awareness of the man, each movement, the scent of his skin, the color of his eyes; all conspired to claim him. He wasn’t supposed to notice anything; how unjust, how _cruel_, to be confronted with one who couldn’t help but to compel notice, by no effort on his part.

Before Edward could blurt out something ridiculous, Jopson took mercy on him and spoke, his expression bright. “I'm sorry if the tart came out wrong. It might have been a little different than to what you’re accustomed. I had to use quite a few substitutions.”

Edward wasn’t surprised; cooking on the seas had to make a lot from a little, and flavor was often sacrificed for quantity. These were long voyages, and most would agree they’d rather live on mash than starve when the freshest choices leave them nothing but rot. But if anyone could make the best out of deprivation, it was Jopson. “I’m sure it’s perfect.” Edward reassured him.

Jopson stopped fussing with the tea tray and glanced over his shoulder at Edward, then down to the pastry in his hands, hurt surprise weighing his features. “You haven’t eaten it yet?” His dismay was palpable. “I thought you said you liked them.”

“I do! Very much. I …” Suddenly, his idea didn’t seem like a good one. “I thought you might like to share.”

“You want to… share?”

“Well, why not?” Jopson’s hurt had unbalanced him; he expected anything but wide-eyed disappointment. It was the last thing he wanted to inflict on this man, and he’d made a real mess of it. Hastily, he attempted to explain: “You made it, you should enjoy some of it.” He shrugged in appeal. “I meant no insult.”

“Insult?” Jopson blinked, and half a moment later understanding seemed to descend. “You didn’t insult me, quite the opposite. No one has ever offered to share a gift with me.”

The thought caught Edward’s heart in a cruel first, squeezing without mercy. How long had this man lived with no one to look out for him, the way he looked out for everyone? Had it not even occurred to Crozier, either? “In that case you must have the first bite,” he said, in a tone that brooked no argument.

“What nonsense is this? It’s your birthday, your gift, your food, you go first.”

“Well, since it’s my birthday that means you have to do what I want. And I want you to eat first.”

Jopson’s irritated incredulity was so adorable that Edward had to bite down against laughter. “That’s not very sporting.”

“So, you’ve said. Now no more stalling." He affected a portentous tone: "He of the Birthday has decreed you must partake or be punished most severely.”

Jopson’s lips curved, against his will. “How could I resist such a cruel order?” With one last sideways look at Edward, Jopson took the daintiest bite he had ever seen in his life, and he’d grown up with a pile of sisters. His teeth had barely scraped the crust.

“You can’t possibly think that counts.”

“No harm in trying,” Jopson said; his bite was only marginally bigger this time, but at least it broke the crust. Edward studied his expression for any hint of reaction, good or bad, but no one was better at hiding his thoughts behind a mask of studied calm. “Now you,” he said, and passed the tart back to Edward.

Neither was paying proper attention to their proximity, so as Jopson placed the pasty in his hand, his fingers brushed Edward’s bare palm, lightly enough to raise a rough chill on the back of his neck, his stomach swooping at the unanticipated contact. He had to be more careful, he _knew_ that, and yet –

“Thank you,” he managed, careful not to drop it. Never had eating anything been such a stressful enterprise. But another instinct took over, some oppositional defiant streak that had once irritated his siblings to no end. Before Jopson could say anything, Edward split the tart in half and popped the smaller portion in his mouth, then handed the larger to Jopson. It would be obnoxious to grin after such a maneuver, but it was his birthday, after all, and Jopson wouldn’t begrudge him the indulgence (for long).

“That was an unworthy trick,” Jopson said, scowling.

Edward wiped his mouth, attempting to wrangle his smile into submission. “Strategy. I am adamant that you enjoy the fruits of your labor, Jopson, since you've had so little chance to do so before. Your enjoyment is your gift to me, and I’m very fond of it.” His thoughts caught up with his mouth half a second too late; if he’d had his wits about him he’d know such a thing was too much to admit, too much to even think, and yet there it was, lingering in the silence between them. He cleared his throat, desperate for an escape. “And the tart was delicious, by the way. You said you made this with substitutions?”

Jopson's irritation seemed to be fading; honest praise would soften even the hardest heart. “It was all we had in stock," he said with a rueful shrug, cheeks coloring.

“Had you said nothing, I never would have known. These are absolutely amazing, how ever did you – “

That brought a little pleased smile to Jopson’s face, though he clearly didn’t want to show pleasure at the hands of the rogue who pulled such a nasty trick. “I’ve been using substitutions all my life. If I could bring home some clipping with a recipe on it, I’d do the best I could with what was on hand. It’s not always a resounding success, but … I’m glad it was today.”

Edward was always careful to maintain a circumspect social distance between himself and the rest of the crew; it was his duty to appear as impartial as possible, for an executive officer with favorites is one that quickly earns the ire of the men, or worse. But tonight, he couldn’t bring himself to care as much about the looming consequences of such a transgression as he usually did. He only wanted to know more, be closer, draw from a well from which he knew there was no end. “Thank you,” he said softly.

Jopson shrugged, suddenly shy. “It isn’t much, but something is always better than nothing, don’t you think so? And this was just about all the time I had today; yesterday I had more time but then this would have been stale, and how unacceptable would that have been, to pass off some crumbling reject as an earnest gift. So … there you have it.” He held his half of the tart between his hands, turning it over and over again, so his restless fingers left flakes of crust on his trousers.

“Won’t you eat with me?” Edward ventured, eyes flickering down to Jopson’s nervous hands before meeting his gaze, brows tented with worry.

Jopson said nothing, looking down at his own pastry. “You really did like it? It wasn’t foul, or something?”

Edward blinked as his thoughts caught up with the statement, and a rush of dismay released him from circumspection. “Of course not! Even if I wanted to lie, I’m not a very good at it. I thought it was exceptional; it’s ruined all other pastries for me, even when we return home, I’ll forever think of Jopson and the time he made my favorite so well it will forever outshine any other attempts, unless he was the one making it, for he’s the only one I can trust to do it perfectly.” His smile was just a little teasing. “Have I convinced you?”

Jopson looked away, faint pink coloring his cheeks and the tops of his ears (how adorable, how _unfair_), but Edward saw the seeds of a true smile on that face, his lips twitching as he fought his acquiescence. “Fine, you’re made your point.”

“Good. Now, I hope you didn’t think to distract me; you still must eat your piece. When is the last time you had something so good?”

Jopson let out a long sigh. “It’s been a few years.”

“Then, come now. Your present to me is enjoying something you made while knowing it made someone happy too. This once, in all of human history, you can have your tart and eat it.”

Jopson tried very hard not to appear amused by that; his incredulous expression was halfhearted at best, diminished by the softness in his eyes. “Very well.” Though they were alone in Edward’s cabin, Jopson still looked from one end to the other, before peering through the slats in Edward’s door. Sufficiently convinced they were alone, Jopson shoved the entire thing in his mouth and chewed with gleeful abandon, his cheeks bulging like a child who overestimates the capacity of his mouth.

Edward’s glee was identical. It was the least thing he might have expected from such a controlled man, who marshaled his gait and manner into something akin to a dance, imperturbable, unflappable. He was the same in a howling gale and the worst of the Doldrums. Edward found it fascinating, even more so that this sensibility lurked beneath it. “Thank you,” he said after Jopson had swallowed. “Not so bad, now, was it?”

“You don’t have to harp on it.”

“I would never do such a thing.” He bit his lip; he really would laugh, if he wasn’t careful.

“Well … you’re welcome. It really wasn’t much, I –“

“It took you time and effort, and the result was delicious.” He couldn’t help a smile now; to press his lips together against it would be unnatural. “It made me homesick for the best of it.”

As his triumph over Jopson’s selfless stubbornness abated, he was once again left with the awkward realization that he was alone in a cabin with a man who had disconcertingly featured in his dreams the last few months, often in various stages of undress. Jopson seemed to come to that realization at the same time, for he hastily clambered to his feet and inched around Edward’s bunk toward the door. “I must get back to – there are still a few loads of linens left to manage. And Captain's --”

Edward stood too; his legs unsteady as a raw recruit on his first voyage. “Of course.” He took a careful step to the side so Jopson could weave around him; as he passed, Edward caught the scent of his hair, soap and sweat and something else. He was seized by the ridiculous impulse to push aside that tendril of hair always hanging in his face, the better to see his astonishing eyes. None of which was acceptable, or even probable. “Thank you again, Jopson.”

Edward caught one last flash of Jopson’s smile, his gaze lifting, then lowering, before the door slid shut between them, and Edward heard a fast set of steps move off in the direction of the lower decks. Only when the sound had faded did he sink back into his bunk, letting his head thunk back against the bulkhead. His trembling hands were still sticky from the glaze, yet he couldn’t bring himself to wash them, though he normally hated the sensation of sugar on skin. He couldn’t get out of his mind the look of mischief on Jopson’s face as he ate, as if it were a delicacy he was transgressing to taste; and noted too that the subversion delighted him in private, when he was so still, so perfect in public.

The secret likewise delighted Edward. Grinning, he flopped back into his bunk, thoughts awhirl. He watched the slats above his head and listened to the creaking of the wood, thinking of Jopson's kindness, the suggestion of humor he needed to express, a blazing personality blooming from behind protocol. He remembered Jopson’s hands, his lips, the impossible beauty of his smile, and a plan began to form.


	2. November 14, 1846

Edward stood at the threshold of Hodgson’s cabin and shuffled from one foot to another, increasingly anxious to escape. It had taken him nearly half the year and dozens of aborted attempts at a suitable gift for Jopson, but each had resulted in spectacular failure, either too poor quality to consider or destroyed somehow in the creative process. Had they been in London, he’d have been able to purchase something appropriate; here, he had to be more resourceful.

But he would never begrudge the necessity; this was the most he’d enjoyed anything in years. As revenge for playing such underhanded tricks last year, Thomas was prone to randomly leaving sweets he knew Edward liked in his cabin, so Edward could never prepare and intercept, let alone retaliate. That his trick had been in an effort to get Thomas to enjoy himself for once went unacknowledged. Thus the sweet war continued; this year, Edward was making Thomas something impossible to share or consume. It would be his, and remain his; that part was important. Most importantly, this was the only true surprise he could think of that was both practical and kind, which would appeal to Thomas’ sensibilities (and reflect his own feelings for the man). To see this done, Edward must recruit a confederate. 

Mustering his patience, he lifted a hand to rap on the door three times. “Hodgson?”

“A moment!” came the muffled reply from inside. There was a flurry of sound; papers shuffling, a chair scraping against the floorboards, accompanied by Hodgson’s good-natured grousing. Less than a moment later the door had slid open, revealing his eager face, pale wispy hair in particular disarray. “What can I do for you?”

Edward cast a surreptitious glance down the hall before turning back to Hodgson, clearing his throat. “I need to ask you something. In private.”

Hodgson’s smile faded. “Is it something serious?”

“Yes. I mean … no. Not exactly. But it is important. Just – I’ll explain if you let me in.”

“Well, then, come in.” With a polite gesture, Hodgson stood aside so Edward could step inside. Their cabins were functionally identical; Edward’s was slightly smaller, as his was farthest aft, and Hodgson had made the best of this boon. Perhaps it was Edward’s beleaguered mood, but he thought wistfully of having a little extra space himself. He might have been able to bring more books along.

Hodgson plopped onto his bunk, looking up at Edward with genuine concern. “What is it, Edward?”

“I … need your help.”

“Yes, I gathered as much. You’re not one for social visits.”

Edward scowled. He wasn’t supposed to rub elbows with the crew and Hodgson knew that; though for Hodgson the stipulation was less stringent, which was perhaps why he took less care in following it; Edward had caught him in casual conversation with some of the men more than once. But Edward needed his help, and a lecture was no appropriate accompaniment to an earnest appeal.

“I need you to teach me to knit,” he ground out; no use in an indirect approach.

Hodgson was surprised only for a moment; he blinked twice, before recovering. “I might be able to do such a thing. As I imagine this will be a time-consuming undertaking, though, I think you ought to give me something in return.”

“What would you like?”

Hodgson tapped his chin. “I would like your copy of _the_ _Iliad_.”

_That was fast, _Edward thought with dismay; the book in question had been expensive, and he’d been looking forward to reading it. But it would be churlish to argue; Hodgson was sacrificing time for his request, and he ought not leave the transaction empty-handed. “All right.”

“Really? You’re not going to negotiate?”

“Why would I? You set your price, I’m willing to meet it.”

“Hm…”

“You can’t say a word about this,” Edward said sternly. “If I hear rumblings about it, I’ll know it was you.”

Hodgson huffed. “Really, now. I’m on your side!”

Edward nodded, already exhausted. “Let me get your book.”

~

So began the most frustrating period of instruction Edward had ever suffered in his life. It must be said; he was an abysmal student with undexterous, clumsy fingers that dropped or twisted a stitch twice as often as he made one correctly. To Hodgson’s credit, he treated Edward’s appalling deficiency with patience, slowly demonstrating each knit from various angles so Edward might have a better chance at understanding. It was no use; every attempt resulted in failure.

He would have kept his silence for much longer, but his latest effort had actually tangled the yarn almost beyond recovery; he’d been desperately trying to straighten out the mess for the last twenty minutes. “I’m terrible at this,” he groaned.

“You’d be pretty boring if you were perfect at everything,” Hodgson said equitably.

“Look at it! Would _you_ wear this abomination?”

“It depends on who gave it to me,” Hodgson said with a knowing grin.

Scowling, Edward threw the misshapen lump of wool on the table. He was growing rather tired of Hodgson’s pointed remarks, as well. Edward had said nothing about his efforts being for more than personal use, but Hodgson seemed to discern otherwise; each knowing glance and cajoling grin was heavy with expectation, as if hoping to bully Edward into revealing the recipient. This ship was miserable with rumors – it was likely someone already knew of Edward’s fixation, though he’d never said a word, hardly allowed himself to think it in the privacy of his own thoughts. He had that kind of luck.

After a week of evening sessions with Hodgson, he deemed Edward proficient enough to continue on his own, without supervision. Edward felt a little exposed; he didn’t really know what he was doing, each of his previous attempts had resulted in garbage. But Hodgson assured him; all it would take is some practice. “We have plenty of time for that, don’t we?” he had asked with a cheery grin. He probably thought he was being encouraging.

So, Edward prepared for his task the way one might prepare for battle. Before the day began in earnest, he readied his space for covert operations: he had a few spare minutes while on duty and could make the most of them if everything was already laid out. Edward cleared out the furthest corner of his bunk, an open space wedged between the bulkhead and frame, and shook out a half-sheet of linen, arranging the wool and needles atop it. Hodgson had lent him a fine pair of needles, varnish worn away on the patches where they set against the fingers; these he jabbed through the heart of the skein. He would work with his back to the door, and should someone barge in, he would be able to ball up the whole thing and shove it out of sight before the intruder realized what he was doing. Edward would risk no rumors on this particular endeavor. The surprise was half the gift.

So the months passed. When his duties were finished for the day, Edward would thread through the decks toward his cabin, careful not to appear intent or suspicious, though he was often too tired for this to be much of a concern. He offered greetings and a round of light conversation with whichever officers crossed his path, and gave every appearance of engagement – he could be convincing, though most of the time it took more effort than it was worth. Only safe back in his quarters did the tension ease out of his shoulders, and he loosed a long sigh, sagging against the wall. He would allow himself only a moment of rest before he unbuttoned his overcoat, hauled the bundle out from its hiding place, and set to work.

He was abysmal. It took him two months just to finish a knitted square – he kept dropping stitches or hopelessly tangling his yarn and had to undo his meager progress every hour. At times he grew so frustrated that he fantasized about hurling the entire accursed contraption into a snowbank and forgetting it ever existed. There had to be better, less irritating ideas; and what was the use of the entire miserable exercise when he had no guarantee that Thomas would like the result? He will have wasted time and relinquished a good copy of the Iliad for nothing.

Yet, Edward persevered. He worked through the nights, patiently unraveling inadequate progress and knitting it again and again, until it was perfect. He even committed the unforgivable and scrimped on scheduling watches for more time to work on Thomas’ gift, rushing through the list minutes before it was due to be posted. Just a few more rows, just a few more … he found himself getting lost in the repetition of the task; skin that had rubbed raw in those first days had grown new callus, and fingers that once labored over every stitch grew deft enough that he would lapse out of concentration every now and then, lulled by the motion of his hands. It wasn’t unlike his earliest days on the water, with a link of rope in his pocket, reflexively practicing knots.

Finally, after months of desperate work, tomorrow was Thomas’ birthday, and a battering-ram of nerves drove to the pit of Edward's stomach. He thought his anxieties would finally abate when he finished the scarf (after summoning Hodgson to assist in casting off the needles, one aspect he had yet to master). All he had yet to complete was a note; a polite felicitation, warm yet impersonal. But when he spread out a blank sheet of paper and took his pen in hand, every thought in his head evaporated. Suddenly, nothing was appropriate, nothing fit; he could not approach the concept of wishing Thomas well without a rush of every informal moment they shared in the last year; a joke in undertone, a glance of shared judgment at the latest nonsense, countless nights spent in low conversation, watching the stars.

The worst was the signature for his note. He had put it off until the last possible moment, because thinking about it made his stomach drop. He hovered over the page for a long time, itching to write his given name. Starting, then hesitating, before he finally set the pen down. _Far too informal._ But so was leaving a gift in his quarters. Dismay overwhelmed; should he be doing this in the first place? The lines between officer and subordinate had already been hopelessly blurred; he couldn’t even remember what the first lapse had been, the first breach. He didn’t _want_ there to be any lines, he wanted them to be Edward and Thomas, if only for an evening.

But that was a lie; he wanted more than one evening. He wanted to live honestly, without strictures or titles; he wanted to shout what was true without draping it in artifice.

With a long sigh, he let his head thud against the table, his breath rustling the paper.

~

On his birthday, Thomas woke with a pinched nerve in his neck and a headache pressing at his temples. Every time he turned his head a twinge of pain lanced up to the base of his skull, making his eyes water. Normally he wasn’t a believer in portents, but something about today made him reconsider; things could always get worse, after all. He knew that better than most.

He had already prepared to go unnoticed; he was not a part of the crew like an AB would have been, or a midshipman. They didn’t know him, nor felt the need to try. This hadn’t come as a surprise, nor did it register as a personal insult, as he remembered fully well how the Captain’s steward on the _Racer_ had been regarded by the rest of the crew; with mild suspicion, derision, even pity. He belonged to Captain and couldn’t be trusted with their grousing. It was as simple as that, and there was no use feeling sore over it.

The day was unseasonably warm, nearly 4**°**f according to Mr. Blanky, so most of the men worked outside, clearing the paths between Terror and Erebus and ferrying supplies back and forth. Sir John reasoned that they were likely to travel between the ships frequently during the long darkness of winter, and it was best they don’t break their necks in the undertaking. There had been the requisite grouching, but it was good-natured – everyone was keen to enjoy a few hours of weak daylight, where the risk for frostbite was lower and one could take off his hat for more than two minutes (though for not much longer than ten).

There were only a few days of sunlight left, before the long Polar Night. Blanky figured three, maybe two. It lent the day a strange sort of anxiety, thought Thomas was no stranger to the long darkness of the Arctic; he’d managed five years straight, he could do so again. But one couldn’t help to miss the sun, especially here, where it illuminated such a stark world, with such alien beauty.

He set about his duties with desperation that irritated him. The ship was mostly empty, there was no one here to perform for; he could do the linens and polish the china and wash and dust and straighten up Crozier’s cabin without being spoken to by a single soul. He hadn’t seen Edward since early this morning; sent by Crozier on some business aboard _Erebus_, no doubt. It was likely he wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. But his absence made the ship seem even more lonely; who could have known how much his stable, silent presence added to this place? Even half the ship away, Thomas felt safer with him near.

Felt that the ship was safer with him near. Yes, that was it.

Around midday, Mr. Blanky found him dusting in the wardroom and clapped him on the shoulder, giving him a fond little shake. “Happy birthday, you.”

Thomas tried to smile. “Please, you don’t have to –”

“Nonsense, every man deserves at least some congratulations, some extra lubrication, or some such –”

“It really isn’t necessary,” Thomas said, demurring. “I still have so much to do today; I wouldn’t want to fall behind.”

Blanky shook his head, his smile sad. “You ought to take a break. Half hour wouldn’t kill you.”

“I don’t know that I could spare –”

Blanky took him gently by the shoulders. “Please, for the love all that’s good, go to bed early tonight. On your birthday. You never have to do it again for the rest of the year, I promise.”

Thomas scowled; he knew when he was being patronized. But he couldn’t refuse the care and concern in such a suggestion. “I’ll … think about it.”

“Good.”

His duties carried him well through the afternoon and into the evening, which was a mercy; he’d never been happier to have his hand chapped raw by the detergent they used for washing; it meant time was passing, bearing him away from this miserable day. He only had to care for the Captain and he could spend the rest of the evening on whatever he wanted, perhaps read something from _Terror’s_ massive library, perhaps listen to Hodgson’s infernal music, perhaps stare up at the stars, thoughts spiraling into that star-studded darkness. He strode quickly down the hall toward Crozier’s cabin and knocked three times, sliding the door open and peeking his head inside.

“Who is it?”

“It’s, ah – Jopson. I was wondering if –”

“Go away, Jopson,” Crozier slurred. From within, the sound of a bottle rolling across the floor clattered against the wall. “Don’t bother me again today.”

Thomas didn’t flinch. “Yes, sir.” He stepped back into the hallway and slid the door shut so carefully in its frame that it made no sound. 

It made sense, he told himself; it wasn't personal. Crozier had been hopelessly mired in a black mood ever since the ships had been beset two months ago, and nothing any of them did could shake it. Sir John’s desperate positivity grated even from a mile away. The Captain wasn’t at fault.

Thomas wandered the deck, adrift in a sea of strangers. How could that be, after more than a year on expedition with them? He’d spent less time on the _Racer_ and had known every man’s favorite meal, his worst memory; here, he might as well be a ghost. But he hadn’t been a steward, then. Now he knew faces and most of the names attached, but very little else; most of his days were spent around the officers, not as an equal but as a resource, a facilitator – handling a thousand small concerns, putting out a million tiny fires. But there were no fires tonight. With no duties to perform or people to engage, Thomas wound his way back to his own quarters. His lids felt like sandpaper, abrading his eyes. He wanted the day to be over.

When he finally slipped back into his back and pulled the curtain shut, he sagged against the wall with a long sigh. The sunlight was already fading, but Sir John must not have been satisfied with the path around Erebus, for Thomas could still hear the chatter of the men as they shoveled snow and chiseled at the ice.

He was so exhausted he didn’t notice the folded scarf in the center of his bunk until he sat on it. Wincing, he pulled the crumpled wool and paper out from behind him. He ran a tentative finger over its front; the dark red wool was so soft that it felt like a cloud beneath his hands. His first instinct was to assume someone had put it in here by mistake; sagging wearily into his mattress, he took the short note from atop the scarf and unfolded it to check for the recipient:

_ Jopson,_  
_ Happy Birthday, and many happy returns. I apologize for the inferior quality of this scarf; I made it myself, though I’ve only  
recently learned how to knit, so my grasp is rudimentary at best. I will make you something much worthier next year, as I  
will have a whole year more of practice._  
_ ~ Little_

For a long moment, Thomas couldn’t breathe. Not only was this his, not only was it for his birthday, but Edward had made it himself; from the sound of it, he’d struggled for months to make it to fit his exacting standards. Only Edward would make him something beautiful and apologize that it wasn’t better. But how could it be better, when it was already perfect? Thomas stared at Edward’s dear handwriting, each exacting letter, every loop and curl, until it began to blur on the page. His eyes burned, and his throat had grown tight, without his even noticing. With a choked breath, he buried his face in the soft folds of wool.

He was being stupid. He could take weeks of rough treatment and rude behavior on the chin, all without a word of complaint, without even thinking about it -- because it meant nothing, it was like snapping at a kitchen appliance -- but the moment someone showed him tender kindness he fell to pieces. _Proof you’re addled, _he thought_, it should be the other way around._

At that moment, he wished Edward were here so badly it settled like an ache in his chest. He didn’t know how he would thank him, only that he must know he’d given Thomas something more than a scarf, lumpy in all the best ways, comforting as an embrace. Leaping to his feet so quickly that his bad knee twinged, he yanked his sweater over his head and shrugged into his overcoat, then wrapped the scarf around his neck. It was long enough to circle it five times, and nearly engulfed his head; the ends were too long to tuck into his coat, so he tossed them over his shoulders, where they fluttered with every step. For a moment he stood there, too happy to think. He’d never loved anything more.

By the time he went topside, the sun had already set, and last rays of light gilded the tips of the jagged field of ice, before being slowly swallowed by the black above. Sparse flurries swirled down from a slowly encroaching cloud, veiling the last of the light. Thomas buried his face deeper into the scarf, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of wool and something else, something he imagined like Edward’s hands. How many weeks had he worked over this? Months? How much of this drive for perfection was fueled by his exacting nature, and how much inspired by the recipient?

Thomas squinted into the horizon, at the blue-shadowed shape of _Erebus_ looming in the distance, a lonely sentinel among spires of snow. The downfall was increasing, but he hardly noticed; he was so preoccupied with that forlorn sight that at first, he didn’t notice the lone shape rushing across the path the men had cleared earlier, holding a swaying light above his head. He was still far too distant to make out his face, but Thomas’ heart leapt; he knew, without knowing, without seeing –

The figure took a misstep on a patch of ice and sprawled face-first into the snow, extinguishing his lantern as he fell. But he was up in the next moment, skidding down the path with his arms held out for balance, lantern left forgotten. If it was Edward, he must be preoccupied indeed to leave behind presumably still-functional equipment. Thomas watched with increasing delight as the figure drew closer and his features grew more distinct, until he stomped up the ramp to the deck; there could be no mistaking those dark eyes, that determined mouth. Clumps of snow clung to his hair and coat, and his cheeks were red from the cold. He blinked up at Thomas in surprise.

“Jopson, what are you --? Oh, you –” He trailed off when he noticed the scarf, shifting awkwardly on the deck, the frozen wood creaking beneath his feet.

“You didn’t have to go through such trouble,” Thomas finally managed.

The smallest grin touched Edward's lips. “Well, I wanted to,” he said, echoing Thomas from last year. “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” He groped for something, anything to say, before the moment grew too unwieldy, too significant to escape. “And by the way; that note,” he said, attempting to sound stern. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to insult your own work? Especially to the recipient!”

“I didn’t know,” Edward said with a bashful shrug. “I thought I would be honest.”

_Of course, he did. _“It seems especially miserable to lie to someone on their birthday,” he continued, a little defensively.

“You feel that way about everything, though. That it’s miserable to lie.”

“Well, even so!” He was quiet a long while, pressing anxious footprints in the snow. “Is it … all right?”

Thomas patted the scarf, shifting it away from his mouth. He thought of making a joke, of being glib to mask how deeply the gift had touched him on a day when he had needed it most, but nothing pleased Edward more than the truth; he'd earned this tender one. “I love it," Thomas breathed.

That earned Thomas a smile, a real one, that warmed him to his bones. “I’m glad.”

Such a gift – to be thought of, cared for. He pictured Edward hunched in his cabin, brows stitched together, lower lip caught between his teeth as he worked, knitting then unraveling, then doing it again, again, again, for months. Edward stood there before him, still panting from his dash across the ice, dripping with melted snow; slowly, he realized that Edward had returned early for his sake. A rush of tenderness took him by the heart. “Let’s get you inside, before you freeze,” he said.

~

Edward was only gone for five minutes, while he stored his soaked overcoat in his cabin and attempted to towel dry his hair, before joining Thomas in the wardroom. He wouldn’t let Thomas pour them drinks, insisting on doing it himself. He lacked the finesse of a steward, Thomas thought, smiling, but that wasn’t the point. He had taken off his own overcoat but couldn’t bear to be parted from his scarf. He knew he looked somewhat ridiculous with a fine woolen scarf bulking around his neck and shoulders, but for once he didn’t care what he looked like. He wasn’t on duty, anyway, and no one else was around.

“Thank you again, Lieutenant,” Thomas said as Edward set the drink down in front of him and took a seat at his side. “What made you think of a scarf?”

“Well, I had to come up with something you couldn’t split or share,” Edward said with satisfaction, taking a polite sip. “You can’t force half of it on me.”

“Force it on you! Because that’s something I would do.”

“Indeed. You have to accept the entire gift, no self-effacing nonsense.”

“I suppose you think that was very smart.”

“I do, because it is.”

Thomas bit his lip against a smile; he feared its intensity, should he let it go unchecked, and such ridiculous behavior ought not be rewarded. “I could teach you more.”

Edward blinked. “Teach me …?”

“About knitting! You’ve done very well on this, please don’t think otherwise. As far as the scarf goes, you have mastered the form. But I can teach you how to make other things.”

Edward looked down at his awkwardly clasped hands. “I’m not a particularly keen student.”

“Nonsense. Any struggle on the subject is more of a reflection on the teacher than the student.”

“While I do think it’s unjust to blame Hodgson for my own lack of skill,” Edward said fairly, “I would welcome your help. What sorts of things should I learn?”

“Gloves, almost certainly. Those wear through so easily, you’re always working with your hands. And socks!” Thomas tapped his chin. “You really should be wearing at least a few pairs. You wouldn’t want to get frostbite.”

“I’ve been doing well enough with what I have so far.”

“Yes, but this winter could be worse than last. I’m surprised at you, Lieutenant. Such careless risk.”

Edward gave him a look of such wounded appeal that he couldn’t keep from laughing. 

“They’re not that hard to make, I promise.”

“So you say. How many years have you been knitting, again?”

“That’s not important.”

“Aha. So longer than a few months.”

Thomas burrowed deeper into the scarf, so that only his eyes peeked over the rim. “I don’t know why you’re balking. You managed this well enough.” He took the end of the scarf between two fingers and flicked Edward in the chest with it.

“What did you say?”

“I said –”

“Here, take that off for a moment.”

“I won’t. It’s my scarf, you can’t have it.”

“What?”

“I said, you can’t have my scarf, you vile thief.”

“I can’t hear you, you’re all muffled.”

“I don’t care. Away with you.”

That much he heard. Edward’s brow quirked. “Do you so enjoy being contrary?”

Thomas was thankful once again for the scarf, for it concealed his trembling grin; to reveal it would ruin the effect. “Whatever could you possibly mean.”

Shaking his head, Edward drew close and slowly unwound the scarf twice, until it no longer obscured his mouth, before twining the ends together between them. His face was so near that it stole Thomas’ breath. His eyes drifted down to Edward’s mouth, then back to his eyes, so earnest, with a hint of laughter, and a hint of need. “There,” Edward said. “Compromise.”

~

All in all, Thomas reflected later, it had been one of his better birthdays.


End file.
